


Hushed Whispers from Dead Lips

by thewinterspy



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-26
Updated: 2014-08-26
Packaged: 2018-02-14 21:04:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,607
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2203086
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thewinterspy/pseuds/thewinterspy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It was one thing to tell a family about their lost loved one… it was another thing when you knew the face that went with the corpse.</p><p>Everyone at Bart’s knew Molly Hooper.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hushed Whispers from Dead Lips

**Author's Note:**

  * For [sherlollymouse](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sherlollymouse/gifts).



"We’re terribly sorry, but she…" the doctor faltered. Understandably. John knew the feeling, and his heart ached, if it was possible to feel any more pain, for the woman. It was one thing to tell a family about their lost loved one… it was another thing when you knew the face that went with the corpse.

 

Everyone at Bart’s knew Molly Hooper.

 

Mary choked out a sob beside him, curling into his side. He wrapped his arm around and pulled her close, not sure whether or not he was trying to comfort her or comfort himself. The feeling that pounded in his chest was crawling up his throat. Illness, maybe. A bout of crying, more likely. Standing beside him, Lestrade wiped his nose. Already his eyes were swollen from all his heavy crying. Lestrade was the one that found her, after all. He was the only one that knew what she looked like before she went into emergency. John reached out and squeezed the man’s shoulder.

 

"I’m so sorry," the doctor said, utterly genuine.

 

John realized she was speaking to him. He was the only one who hadn’t cried yet. Somehow, he was the strong one. He didn’t feel like it. He felt like lead. He felt like sinking to the ground.

 

He felt like shooting Moriarty in the head, even if the bastard was already dead.

 

"We-we tried," the doctor’s hands were shaking, she couldn’t make eye contact, "We tried to save th-the baby, but we couldn’t, still so so young-"

 

Mary’s head jerked up violently from John’s shoulder, “The baby?”

 

The doctor looked right at them, her eyes widening in horror, “You-you didn’t know?”

 

Stunned, the couple shook their heads. Lestrade struggled for breath beside them, mumbling incoherently in disbelief.

 

"Who-" John cleared his throat uneasily, "Who’s, ah, who’s baby was it?"

 

The doctor’s big eyes were starting to water, and she shook her head, “I-I didn’t know. I didn’t even ask-“

 

"Oh Meena," Lestrade stepped forward, and took the woman in his arms as she started to cry, "You did what you could, it’s okay,"

 

John’s heart sank as he realized who this was. Molly’s best friend. Molly’s best friend was the one who had tried to start her heart again. Oh god. He wiped down his face, swallowing the lump in his throat.

 

With a hard nudge, Mary caught his attention. Without a word, she looked to the doors of the waiting room. The swish of a long, dark coat disappeared behind it.

 

The Watsons stared in shock, letting the pieces fall into place.

 

"Sherlock," John whispered, and he was bolting after his best friend.

 

Meena had done her job. It was time for John to go do his.

 

Outside the hospital, night had fallen over London, and a miserable rain followed the shadows. A perfect setting to match this horrible, horrible event. Molly was gone, and her loss panged in John’s heart as if she was his.

 

The street was empty, and if it wasn’t for the sputter of the engine, John wouldn’t have noticed the cab going down the street.

 

 _"No!"_ He raced after it, but even before he started running he knew his attempt would be futile. It was already too far, and already speeding around the corner out of sight. He was at the end of the street when he stopped in defeat.

 

He turned around, his hands pulling at his hair in distress, when he saw Mary moving down the sidewalk. At first, he assumed she was going to him, when she stopped at a bench, where a huddled figure was sitting. Realizing who it was, John jogged to meet Mary halfway, to the bench.

 

Sherlock was crouching over, cigarette in mouth, lighter in hands. If he could, he would have lit it, but as he tried, his hands shook too hard.

 

"Stage four of the Kubler-Ross model," he said in lieu of a greeting when the Watsons sit on either side of him, "Depression. Severe despondency and dejection, typically felt over a period of time and accompanied by feelings of hopelessness and inadequacy,"

 

"And the other three?" John asked, surprising himself with his response.

 

Sherlock glanced over at him, his eyes glazed over. It wasn’t drugs, John knew. He didn’t have to check over properly, he just knew.

 

"You’ll find stage two is Baker Street in shambles. I wrecked the place,"

 

"Oh Sherlock," Mary sighed, taking his hand. She drew the lighter out of his hand, even as Sherlock shook his head.

 

"No, no, I need it," he mumbled softly, reaching for it like a child would reach for a toy, but Mary pocketed it and took his hands in hers.

 

"You don’t, Sherlock," John set his hand on Sherlock’s back, "You really don’t. It’s going to be alright-"

 

"Don’t," the detective sighed impatiently, "Don’t bother with that line."

 

"Who here has dealt with losing someone they love? Sherlock, when you’re out of your depths, you consult an expert. Who here has dealt with losing someone they love?"

 

Sherlock snapped, “I already said sorry about-“

 

He stopped suddenly, his snarl dissipating into shock. He was staring at the pavement. Mary scooted closer to him, wrapping her arms around his torso.

 

"It was here," Sherlock breathed.

 

John followed his gaze, and knew. He could see it so vividly, even now, years later. He could remember the crowd, the hands holding him back, all the blood, so much blood, pale eyes staring back at him even in death…

 

"You fell here," John said. He pinched his lips, and then nodded, "Yeah, it was here, Moriarty-"

 

"I faked my death," Sherlock sucked in a breath, shaky and cracking. He reached into his pocket, and pulled out a crumpled note, "She didn’t,"

 

The rain was already making the paper wet, so John quickly unfurled the paper. He recognized Molly’s handwriting, loopy and messy and the last thing they’ll have of her. John suddenly felt the urge to send it to a museum, to preserve it forever.

 

_I don’t regret it. It’s for you. To keep you safe. Anderson was right, we were meant for each other. I was always meant to keep you safe. Don’t worry about Jim. Live. Live for me.  
_ _-Molly_

 

"Anderson was right," Mary repeated. John folded the wet paper, tucked it away to keep it dry as she went on, "What did she mean?"

 

"He believed we were together," Sherlock’s fists opened and closely uneasily, "He wasn't wrong."

 

"Sherlock, you were there long enough, you heard what Meena said-"

 

"Yes."

 

"Did you know? About the baby, I mean-" John stopped, feeling the way Sherlock went stiff under his assuring hand.

 

"She was always… Molly ... she’s always a blind spot. I could never-" Sherlock was shaking, and his breath was coming short, "Could never see her-"

 

"Sherlock, breathe with me," Mary told him, and guided him through slow breathing. The detective complied, but it couldn’t stop his shaking.

 

"I’ll kill Moriarty," he vowed, his voice sounding wet and desperate, "I’ll kill him."

 

"Sherlock, I was the one that found the body, alright, he’s dead, collision to the head the same way Molly’s was,"

 

Sherlock’s breath was sucked in hard, and thunder crackled above their heads.

 

"She can’t-" he shook his head, "She can’t-"

 

"I’m so sorry, Sherlock," Mary whispered.

 

"I want my lighter back," he suddenly spat out, and Mary’s face turned stony.

 

"No,"

 

"Give it!" Sherlock lunged at her, but John grabbed him by the arms and yanked him back. Mary had leaped out of the way, standing in the puddle in front of them.

 

 _"Let go of me,"_ he snarled, writhing John’s grip, but John remained steady.

 

"You try and hurt my wife again, I’ll end you," John promised. Sherlock yanked against him, huffing in exertion. John continued on, his voice dead calm, "You’re mourning, Sherlock. It can’t end in violence, it can’t. And it can’t be like that with us, you hear me? You hear me? Because no matter how hard you bite and scratch, we’re gonna stay. We’re here. Mary’s here, I’m here. We’re not leaving you,”

 

Sherlock was shaking, and John couldn't hear anything he was saying through the blood rushing through his ears. John looked up to meet Mary’s eyes, but she was crying, one hand over her mouth.

 

John realized Sherlock wasn't speaking, but sobbing. Sobbing so hard his body was doubling over from the pain of all of it. Shocked, John’s grip loosened, and Sherlock tumbled to the ground. Mary was over him in a second, draping herself across his back and holding him as his body heaved in pain.

 

The doctor sat in dead shock at the sight. He realized he would look the same, if it had been Mary not Molly at the bottom of that hill, torn ragged by the tumble against rocks and debris. He would be wrecked and the world would cease to hold any meaning.

 

He fell to his knees and held the two people he loved most in this world as they grieved together.

 

* * *

 

 

Floors above the pavement, watching in tears from the wide stair window, a hushed whisper came from dead lips.

 

"Thank you, Meena."

 

Meena swallowed nervously, “Will you go down to see him?”

 

"He can’t know. None of them can know. You and Greg… you can’t tell Sherlock,"

 

"I won’t," the doctor vowed, "But where… where will you go? What are you going to do?"

 

Molly sighed, pulling her ponytail over her shoulder, “What I was meant to do. Keep Sherlock safe,”

 

With that, she hugged her friend, and disappeared down the stairs, becoming simply another ghost of St. Bart’s.

 

**Author's Note:**

> To be continued.


End file.
